


Not the Worst Story I Know

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: Mehitabel comes to a new perspective on an old relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide Buddy,
> 
> Oh my goodness! This proved far more difficult to write than anticipated, mostly, I think, because I was intimidated by the source material. However, I did try to include the elements you asked for in the prompt: Mehitabel, and Mildmay, and the castmates if possible. (And I would have liked very much to have included Cardenio, but... Maybe next year.)
> 
> I set the fic after the exile because, to me, it seemed that the story of their interaction was complete, and all that was available to work with was a reinterpretation of their relationship (which could, itself, be very dramatic!) I hope it hits Mehitabel as hard as it should, here; I think she, like everyone else, tends to underestimate exactly how much of an agent Mildmay is in his own life.
> 
> I want you to know, too, that there was an earlier outline of this fic wherein Drin gets kicked off the cast and replaced with a new guy, "Sebastian". I think we both know who *that* would have been, and I'm glad I didn't do it, but I thought you might get a kick out of the idea. :)

 

“Mehitabel, could I have a moment?”

_ No, Jean-Soleil, you may not.   _ But this wasn’t the time to say it.  

It had been less than a month since Felix and Mildmay had departed Mélusine, and while  _ Edith  _ would continue to play for some time— it was ridiculously popular— we all knew it was time to begin work on a new play.  Jean-Soleil, however, hadn’t yet told yet what we were doing, and while everyone had their own idea, those were worth approximately the paper it was printed on— which was to say, since none of our ideas were written down:  nothing.

And so when Jean-Soleil stopped me, I wistfully said goodbye to the ten minutes I had been hoping to have alone before seeing Stephen and conspired to seem attentive. 

“It won’t take long,” Jean-Soleil promised.  “It’s just about the new play.”

_ Well, I hadn’t expected you would ask me to adopt a puppy,  _ I thought.  “What can I do for you?” I asked aloud instead.  

Jean-Soleil leaned in conspiratorially— not a terribly convincing look on him, truthfully— and said, “It’s about Semper.”

“Oh?”  

My curiosity was genuine, if underplayed.  What  _ had  _ the boy done?

“He has excelled,” Jean-Soleil gushed, and that was certainly true.  But Jean-Soleil knew I liked Semper, which meant he was buttering me up for something.  

So I turned it around on him.  “I think we all have,” I said.   _ “Edith  _ is surpassing our wildest dreams.”

Jean-Soleil flushed faintly, but forged ahead.  “Still!  With Semper doing so well, I thought it was time to do a play that featured him.”

“He’s the lead in  _ Edith.”   _ I was not playing dumb; I genuinely had no idea what Jean-Soleil was getting at.

He waved my protest away.   _ “You’re  _ the lead in  _ Edith,”  _ he corrected.  “And that’s what I mean.  Well, in a way.”  He was already standing close, but now shuffled in half a step more, like a nearsighted scholar trying to make the pages focus.  “I know what play we should do next.  No!  I know what play we  _ must  _ do next!  It’s the only play that speaks uniquely to the city in such a way!  But—”  He raised both hands, palms up, and shrugged.  “You could not be the heroine, in this one.”  

Ah.

The problem was, I wasn’t quite well-enough established yet to take a season off.  We both knew it.  And if I were to do so now, in addition to everything else, everyone would believe my retirement permanent.  

(Because of Stephen.  But frankly, if I had to choose between Stephen and acting, Stephen wouldn’t win.)

“Jean-Soleil, I can’t just  _ not—”   _

He was already shaking his head.  

“Not at all!  You misunderstand.  I’m not saying you should not  _ act  _ for the play— that would be throwing away a diamond simply because it is clear.”

I allowed the preen to show a bit.

“No, what I need from you is not a heroine.  I need a  _ villain.”  _

I stared.  

How many plays could there be that had a female  _ villain?  _ I wondered, stalling for time by taking the mail out of my cubby.

And then I knew.

“No,” I said flatly.

The sheer volume of my rage astonished me, and the quiet observer in my mind that watched people’s faces took note.  Betrayal after betrayal, my own and other people’s, and I wouldn’t have expected this to make me feel much of anything.  I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of it.  But even with everything else, they had both been my friends, and perhaps I  _ should  _ have seen it coming.  

It took long moments of standing there, throttling my mail between hands that few would believe were so strong, to stuff down the fury.  And he was good at what he did, Jean-Soleil, because he stood there the whole time and let me do it.

“It is what the city needs.”  His voice was low when he finally spoke, repeating his earlier argument.  “They need to remember that a good man can serve a bad master.  They need to understand that bad masters are, themselves, people.  They need sympathetic monsters and superficial, uninteresting romantic leads.  They need to understand that things are not as they seem, and that complexity is not their enemy.”

He was right.

But that wasn’t my job.

“We’re just actors, Jean-Soleil.”  My mail was crumpled beyond all easy reading, and I tucked it behind my skirt so that he couldn’t see.  “We  _ just put on plays.” _

_ “Just  _ actors?”

Alright, we both knew that one had been a bluff.  But what else could I have said?

I stared, helpless— I couldn’t exactly tell him  _ no,  _ as much as I wanted to— and he leaned in for the kill.  “You would be very good in it,” he said.  

I would be  _ magnificent  _ in it, and we both damned well knew it.

And anyway, it wasn't exactly like I could replace Susan at the Cockatrice...   I sighed, acknowledging the inevitable with good grace.

“Alright, what do you need?”

Well, as much good grace as I could summon, anyway.

 

* * *

 

What Jean-Soleil needed, it turned out, was twofold.  Firstly, he needed my assurance that i wouldn’t scuttle the production before it got off its chair, something I was eminently capable of and strongly tempted towards.  My word, however, was assurance enough in that matter, and, my cooperation having been ensured, we moved on to the other, more complicated, matter:  Jean-Soleil wanted assurance that the Lord Protector thought the play was an acceptable choice.

Stephen didn’t always ask about my day— there were times, quite frankly, when we didn’t bother— but most nights he did, and so it was easy enough to describe the disquieting interview in the hallway as Jean-Soleil’s madness.  I wasn’t fool enough to phrase it as asking for permission — that was a sure way not to get it— but rather, I portrayed the choice of play as a daring move, a dangerous move, but possibly a brilliant one, and then asked Stephen what he thought.  It galled, a bit, to admit that the choice of play was in fact all of those things, but I was a grown woman and capable of swallowing a bit of bile.

I found to my astonishment that Stephen was smiling by the end of my story, albeit in his mild, granite-like way.  “What?” I asked, and he chuckled.

“You’ll be magnificent,” he told me, which was true, but irrelevant:  a front.

“That’s what I said,” I frowned.  “But what else was there?”

Stephen tossed his napkin next to his glace cup and stood.  “I was thinking,” he said, “That it’s one of my favorite plays.”

My jaw dropped, albeit less than it might have.  “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not!  Always liked it.  Porphyria’s a great villainess.  Silas is even better.  I’ll come see it, if you like.”

Well, that was as much of a seal of approval as Jean-Soleil could have hoped for.  “I would like,” I admitted.  “Wait, why is Silas better than Porphyria?”

“Realistic.”

“I think they both are.”  And not only because I was the one playing Porphyria.  “Actually, the incredibly precise characterization is one of the greatest strengths of the play.”

Stephen’s eyebrows shot up.  “Silas is a small boat on a tumultuous ocean, and Porphyria’s straight greedy.  Everyone else is obscure,” he dismissed.

I shivered, and found I couldn’t agree; I remembered the crazed look on Felix’s face when he snuck into the Bastion, and I remembered what put it there.  “Porphyria isn’t greedy.  She’s holding tight to the things she loves, a very human impulse.  And her weakness isn’t avarice, it’s lack of self-awareness.  She doesn’t realize that the very thing destroying her love is the tightness of her grip.”

“Hmm!” Stephen said.  “Silas is still a boat, though.”

I smiled, and realized that I couldn’t agree with that, either.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until Semper found out about the play that I was able to put my finger on  _ why  _ I didn’t agree with it, though.  

He found me in my dressing room with a polite, tentative knock, fifteen minutes before the curtain went up.  From the wild eyes and stunned demeanor, I knew instantly what had happened.

“Put it away,” I said sharply, twisting my hair savagely because I suddenly did not have time.

_ “Silas Altamont,”  _ he blurted, and his arms jerked as if someone had stumbled into him from behind.  

“Put it  _ away,”  _ I repeated.  “We go onstage in  _ ten minutes; _ we’ll talk about it after.”

He gulped and nodded, turning back to the hallway, but he was a solid actor despite his inexperience, and by the time we were on stage pretending not to be in love with each other, he didn’t even know who Silas Altamont was.

 

* * *

 

“Alright,” I said when he sought me out that night.  “Spill.”

“It’s just...  Mehitabel, it’s  _ Silas Altamont.   _ What am I supposed to do with him?”

I could have humored him, I supposed, but I was tired from a long day and out of patience, and anyway, I was going to be the villain for this one, and that still stung.  So I asked instead, “Why?  What’s wrong with him?”

Semper practically shook apart, he rejected the idea so hard.  “Nothing!” he insisted.  “Silas Altamont was...”  He trailed off, and then abruptly changed tack.  “Do you know, this was the first play I ever read?  The  _ only  _ play I read, for over a year.  And Silas, he spoke to me, the way no other character had or has since.  And the thing is, Silas is a genuinely good man.  What  _ is  _ wrong with him?  Nothing.  He’s just in a bad situation.”  

Actually, I had always thought Silas slightly boring, and definitely too passive, but— 

That was the moment it solidified, clarified in my mind.  I knew what was wrong with Silas, and even more — I knew how to fix it.  I carefully began pulling hair-pins out and putting them in the bowl on the vanity; I would need a new style in before I arrived in the Mirador, at any rate.  To my own astonishment, my hands were shaking slightly.

“You’re aware that I was friends with both Felix Harrowgate and Mildmay Foxe?” I asked, keeping my face smooth, my hands steady.  It was a trap question; of course Semper knew that, but now he was following my conversational lead.

“Yes,” he answered like the good little lamb he mostly was.

I kept my gaze focused on what I was doing with my hair.  “People asked Mildmay— myself first among them— how he could possibly have let his brother trap him with the obligation  d'âme .”

Semper’s image in my mirror blinked rapidly, but nodded.

“The answer Mildmay gave was always the same—  _ so  _ identical, in fact, that it must have been either well-rehearsed or the truth.”  I paused for a bit and untwisted a braid.  “Mildmay was not fond of rehearsal, by the way, so my bet’s on that second one.”

Semper took half a step into the room.  “What did he say?” he asked. 

Hooked.

I smiled faintly, and made a mental note to change my lipcolor before going up to the Mirador.  “That he didn’t.”  I let Semper blink for moment before continuing, “Let him, that is.  In fact, the binding-by-forms was Mildmay’s idea in the first place; he had to cajole his brother into performing it at all.”  

The effect was immediate, and quite satisfyingly dramatic:  Semper gaped and then frowned, going back and forth between the two expressions almost like a man having a conversation with himself.  “But why?” he asked eventually.  “Why would anyone _do_ that?”  

I shrugged and started re-pinning my hair for tonight.  “He never quite said,” I claimed tactfully.  

Honestly, though, it was Mildmay: he almost never said  _ anything  _ unless it was necessary.  And I could, now that I was looking at it from a different angle, put the facts together, easily enough.  I was kicking myself for missing it— if I even had, that was; if I hadn’t seen it, and then purposefully  _ un- _ seen it as none of my business.

Ultimately, the reason Mildmay asked Felix to do the obligation  d'âme had to be the same as Silas Altamont’s reason:  the only reason there could ever be, which was the feeling that any  _ other  _ choice carried a risk to great to be borne.  In Silas’ case, it was the loss of his beloved Lord Creon Malvinius; in Mildmay’s, the only threat which could possibly have convinced him was the loss of his brother.  

His life, he could have saved by travelling  _ literally anywhere else;  _ he could even, perfectly well, have stayed in Klepsydra.  

(Belatedly, I realized that this, too, was much like Silas, who could presumably have left both Lord Creon and the newly-married Lisette in the dust, but who had chosen to stay with Porphyria, instead.)  

His livelihood, Mildmay had already sacrificed before the  obligation  d'âme, and in fact, before I had even met him.  His honor...  Well, regardless of the  _ actual  _ state of his honor,  _ Mildmay  _ believed it long gone.  And love, too— Ginevra was dead, and it was easy to see that Mildmay considered himself too literally and metaphorically scarred for love.

Except in one, rather dreadfully relevant, case.

Which meant that Mildmay really  _ was  _ playing Silas Altamont, after all, and I probably owed Semper an apology.  Hands shaking, I pushed back from the dressing table.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, hair pinned, face serene, and back straight, I made my way up to the Mirador.  Semper was seeking out Gordeny Fisher for Mildmay stories, and I had a Lord Protector to enrapture.

_ And then,  _ I thought,  _ I might write a letter.   _

It wouldn’t matter that he’d never read it.  Ultimately, it wasn’t _really_ for Mildmay, anyway.


End file.
